


The Autumn Leaves

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [65]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Character Study, Conversations, Cooking, F/M, Fights, Hisana Lives!, Kissing, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26309083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: Rukia and Renji train with Byakuya and Hitsugaya.  Hisana takes tea with Rukia.  Rukia attempts a date night and fails.
Relationships: Abarai Renji/Kuchiki Rukia, Kuchiki Byakuya/Kuchiki Hisana
Series: A Thin Red Line [65]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/93946
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	The Autumn Leaves

The crisp _crunch_ of the branch is a dead give-away. The noise _echoes_ , causing a family of nesting birds to take wing.

 _Dammit!_

Rukia can’t even delude herself into thinking that maybe—just _maybe_ —she’s in the clear.

“There you are!” says Renji.

She stares at him as if her blundering was _intentional_. He doesn’t believe her. Not for a second.

Rukia dodges Renji’s attack, no sweat. Which, on review, is odd. Why would he even bother with such an easily avoided strike unless—

Captain Hitsugaya catches her ankle in Hyōrinmaru's chain. 

In a flash, she manages to slip out of the entanglement—pulse tightening her throat—but barely. The bite of the chain, however, stings the flesh, sending a shard of electricity up her leg.

Brother is quick to descend upon Renji, driving him back with Senbonzakura’s shikai. 

She can feel the escalation between them. Brother is trying to force Renji into bankai, and, really, if Captain Hitsugaya wasn’t such a _bastard_ to shake, she would go help Brother, as a good Vice Captain should.

Although, it seems that Brother and Captain Hitsugaya have the same thought: Bait the lower-ranking officers with the other. Not surprising. This entire training session has played out like a shogi game. 

An _exciting_ one.

“Come on, Kuchiki,” says Captain Hitsugaya. “You can’t run forever.”

True. She can’t. But, she really, really doesn’t want to hurt the good captain, and her special attacks aren’t doing _anything_. 

He doesn’t even _react_. How is that possible? He’s figured her out her attack set over the course of _one session_? That’s a record. 

“I’m bored with your dances, Kuchiki.” He picks up the pace. 

How about kidou, then, if he’s _so bored_? 

“Hadō number 73: Twin Lotuses, Pale Fire Crash!” Light crackles from her index and middle fingers, sending two beams surging toward Captain Hitsugaya, who abandons course in a rare moment of surprise.

At least she got a response from him. Doesn’t seem like much of a victory, but Rukia will take her wins where she can get them. 

He pauses and blinks. “That was _interesting_.”

Rukia glares at him. “Only _interesting_?” she grouses. His inflection makes it sound like she grew another head instead of presenting a momentary hurdle. 

Feeling Renji’s reiatsu burst through the trees, she knows he’s called for his bankai. 

_Dammit_. 

No doubt Captain Hitsugaya will want her to summon Sode no Shirayuki’s bankai now. His and Brother’s strategies thus far have been near mirror images.

Bet they even made a wager on who could get their target to release first.

“I’ll make this easier for you, Kuchiki,” he says, voice as smooth as river rock. “Bankai, Great Roaring Coldly Shining Moon!”

Well, _damn._ No choice now. Rukia stops, positions Sode no Shirayuki in front of her, and says the magic words: “Bankai, White Haze Punishment.”

* * *

“And then what happened after that?” Smiling, Hisana leans over and refreshes Rukia’s tea.

“Well, I think I nearly killed both of us.”

Hisana stares at her sister, flabbergasted. “What?”

“Hyōrinmaru mostly absorbed the attack, Captain Hitsugaya was fine, and he was patient with me. I’m fine.” 

Rukia pauses to give Hisana a comforting onceover. 

“That forest in the Western Third, though.” Rukia grins over the rim of her cup and takes a sip. “Well, let’s just say it’s basically an ice palace now.”

“Did Lord Byakuya and Renji make it out alive?” Hisana chuckles.

Rukia’s grin inches wider. “Yeah. They were across the forest. Far from danger. At least from me. Their battle went on for a little while longer before Renji yielded.”

“Byakuya wasn’t too hard on the boy, was he?”

“No. Renji was very appreciative.”

“Renji’s always appreciative.”

“Yeah, but he was _genuinely_ appreciative.”

“He’s always genuinely appreciative.”

“Yeah, but Brother wasn’t a hard-ass.”

Hisana blinks hard. He _wasn’t_? That idea takes a moment to sink in. Perhaps Renji has impressed him in some small way. 

And, with that thought, Hisana is off to the races. 

Her heart swells at the possibility that _perhaps_ her dear husband _likes_ Renji. How novel would that be? 

“Don’t,” says Rukia, who appears armed and ready to pop any bubble of hope, “Brother still huffs about Renji’s lack of control on our walks back to the Sixth.”

“Lord Byakuya does not huff, Rukia.” 

“Criticizes, then.”

“You know criticism is his love-language. It’s how he mulls things over. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t say anything at all.”

“He called Renji’s bankai unimpressive.”

Hisana gasps. “What?” 

“Or something thereabouts. I wasn’t there. Renji told me that Byakuya was unimpressed.”

“Well, being unimpressed and calling something unimpressive are two different things. Byakuya is rarely impressed.”

“Brother had to have said something. Renji never knows how to read Brother, otherwise.”

Hisana inhales a sharp breath and closes her eyes on the exhale. 

Rukia lifts a shoulder, the amusement in her face fading. “Renji didn’t take it too hard. Especially after Brother agreed to continue helping him.”

Hisana takes a long sip of tea. “Byakuya’s actions always speak louder than his words.”

Rukia's lips flutter. Open. Close. But, the words never come. Instead, she lets out a small groan, her fingers curling into fists. _Frustration_. It’s such a rare look on Rukia. 

Is her sister finally _rebelling_? Is this what teenage _angst_ looks like? How exciting! 

Although, Rukia seems a few years too late to be in the throes of her _angsty_ years. 

Hisana hides her grin behind the rim of her cup. “Go on, Rukia. No need to edit your thoughts. Byakuya can be difficult. It’s part of his charm.”

Rukia purses her lips, and her fingers toy with the fringe of the red pillow that she plucked to sit on. “It’s just Renji’s trying, and Brother is,” she begins, pausing for a beat, “he is—well—he’s being _Brother_.”

Ah, yes. It was only a matter of time before Byakuya’s _rigid_ guarding of the inner sanctum of the family would finally come to a head with Rukia. If he were ever taken to task over it, he would either deny it or justify the gatekeeping as part of being the head of the clan. 

The latter would be true- _ish._

Not that Rukia would ever confront Byakuya about this rigidness. Direct communication between the two of them that borders on the _interpersonal_? That would be the day, a day promised to never, ever come. The hard fact of which leaves Rukia as she sits now, uncomfortably trying to unknot the reasons why Byakuya is the way he is and what she can do about it that neatly avoids talking to him.

The equation that Rukia appears to be struggling to solve, however, is a _multivariant_ one. 

Choosing the easier of the variables, Hisana says, “Byakuya loves you, Rukia.”

Rukia bristles, like a rabbit shaking clover from her fur. She knows this to be true, but she doesn’t want to admit it. It’s a convenient blind-spot, one that Rukia wants to keep despite mounting evidence to the contrary.

“And Lord Byakuya has lost so many of those he holds dear. His mother died when he was a boy; his father died young; his grandfather, too, perished before his eyes; and, one of his close mentors had been presumed dead until recently.” 

Rukia’s shoulders sag, and her chin lowers. “And then you almost died . . . .”

Deep regret sinks Hisana’s heart. Yes, she was almost among the threads that compose the rich tapestry of his tragic losses. And, that’s the thing, the thing that her husband fears the most: Abandonment. 

Byakuya will never admit it aloud—maybe not even privately to himself—but this is the fear that drives the deepest into his heart. Fear of losing the ones he loves animates so many of his actions and triggers all his fault-lines.

Observing Rukia with a soft stare, Hisana sets her teacup down. “Lord Byakuya is careful with his heart, and you’re part of his heart.”

Rukia’s lips draw into a compact line. Again, that nasty blind-spot of hers emerges.

“No, truly,” says Hisana, “when you achieved bankai, he spoke _endlessly_ about it. He was _excited_ and _proud_ of you. There wasn’t a speck of ice that went undescribed when he told me about it. He even _drew it out_.”

“What?” Rukia blinks back her surprise, and her knees inch closer to the edge of her pillow. “He _drew it_?”

“It wasn’t a work of _art_ so we didn’t _frame it_ ,” says Hisana drily, “but he was so happy for you. And, then he spoke at length on zanpakutō theory. He even pulled books from the archive to research it and regaled me with even more thoughts. That’s why he sweet-talked Captain Hitsugaya into helping you.” 

Rukia inclines her head. The furrow in her brow lessens. “Really?”

“He’s even taken to calling Renji by his given name,” says Hisana, sipping at her tea.

“Wait! Renji’s no longer the _Ruffian_?”

“I wouldn’t throw a retirement party for that nickname just yet, but Byakuya is making an effort.” 

Rukia’s cheeks glow a pale pink. “I had no idea.”

“He doesn’t make it easy.” 

Rukia stares down into her tea. “I told Renji that reading Brother is like learning a new language.” 

“Isn’t that the truth,” says Hisana, breath caught on a sigh.

“I should be more charitable toward him.”

Hisana shakes her head. “Oh, I’m not trying to excuse his curmudgeonly behavior. It’s just that his opinion isn’t as low as you or Renji might think.” At least if they’re only paying attention to his inscrutable moods.

Raising her gaze, hope glimmers in Rukia’s eyes. “Yeah. He’s still working with Renji and me. And, his commentary on Renji’s training is more technical, not personal. It’s just—”

“He’s never going to be effusive, especially toward the man who has designs on his beloved sister,” says Hisana, trying hard to blunt the impact, but the truth comes sharp.

Face shuttered, Rukia nods her understanding.

Hisana digresses. “How are things, by the way?”

Rukia straightens her back. Her shoulders shift as if her silks have become uncomfortably warm. “Things?” she asks, pitch high and resonance thready.

“With you and Renji?” Hisana asks the obvious question, but she isn’t holding her breath for a coherent response. 

No amount of eyebrow wagging or suggestive glances can convince Rukia to spill the details on her relationship with Renji. Instead, Rukia consistently resorts to flustered speech, flushed cheeks, and the general mien of a cat who has been dumped into a cold lake whenever more intimate topics are broached. 

Like now. 

“I—ugh—I—we—are—” Rukia stammers and runs a hand through her choppy locks. _Three times._ “We are—things are—I ugh—”

She’s at least trying today. That’s new and different. “Going well, I hope?” 

Rukia tips her cup back and drains the tea like it’s a shot of liquor. Realizing what she’s done—downing _steaming hot_ _tea_ in one go—Rukia winces. “Yeah,” she wheezes.

Hisana fills her sister’s cup. “He’s been appropriate with you, I take it.”

“Very—always—nice.”

Are those words? A sentence? Hisana pretends to understand and smiles. 

Was _she_ ever this flustered over a man? _No._ Hisana squints in thought. _Maybe?_ _Never_ , she finally decides.

As Rukia rushes to fill her mouth with more tea instead of words, Hisana considers her sister for a long moment. “You are using protection, I hope.”

Tea sprays from Rukia’s mouth. A cloud of fine mist hangs between them accompanied by the sounds of Rukia hacking into the bend of her arm for a few protracted moments.

Hisana isn’t sure whether it was the question or the spit-take that has her sister more distressed when she hands Rukia a cloth napkin to clean the spittle from her lips. 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Embarrassed, Rukia sinks into herself as she wipes her mouth and chin. Her eyes stay rooted to the teacup. 

When Hisana leans forward, Rukia places her hand over the top of the cup. “I’m good.”

Hisana pulls back and waits. 

Meaningful silence. 

This technique works to great effect on her husband, who most assuredly flustered at certain questions asked during the early days of their courtship.

“We haven’t—we don’t—we aren’t—” begins Rukia.

“You haven’t had sex, yet?” 

Rukia’s cheeks turn a lovely shade of beet-red. “No,” she says and tries to drink from the _empty_ teacup.

Hisana leans forward again with the teapot. This time, Rukia doesn’t resist.

“That’s,” Hisana begins but pauses to search for the appropriate thing to say. _Old-fashioned. Nice. Normal._ These words all sound _wrong_ , _loaded_. 

So, she tries again. 

“It’s good to take things slowly. People forget to savor the beginnings.”

“I mean,” says Rukia, shoulders sagging with shame, “I don’t think it’s bad.”

“Waiting? That’s never bad—”

“No,” interrupts Rukia, “sex. I don’t think sex is bad.” 

That’s an unexpected turn. Hisana waits for a few moments, but, when Rukia doesn’t continue, Hisana urges her with a quiet word. “ _But._ ”

“It’s not—where—how could we—without—” Rukia stops short of anything approaching intelligible speech. 

Realizing her blundering, however, makes things worse. With cheeks aflame, Rukia sinks farther into her silks. Uncomfortable silence follows, leaving Hisana to mine the half-spoken fragments for truths. 

Hisana discovers a few tidbits in those half-spoken nothings. _Juicy_ tidbits that seemly suggest Rukia’s problem is not a lack of interest but a lack of opportunity. 

Not surprising considering that neither the barracks nor the estate is particularly _private_. Also, if Hisana had to hazard a guess, Rukia and Renji likely haven’t announced their coupledom to their friends and are circumventing well-intentioned meddling. 

Which brings Hisana to the hair-raising question of: “Have you two even been out on a _date_?”

Rukia’s blush deepens. Patchy red splots now crawl down her neck. “Um . . . well . . . we . . . we’ve gone out with friends for drinks.”

“Are these friends other couples?”

Rukia shakes her head.

“You go out to bars with squad-mates from the Sixth and Thirteenth, then?”

“And the Eleventh and Tenth and Eighth and—"

Hisana raises a hand. She’s heard enough. How could she have let this happen? To her own sister, too? Years ago, she mentored young girls in the art of seduction, and yet, with Rukia, she’s been woefully neglectful.

She must redress this at once. 

“We own a nice cabin on a lake in town. Why don’t you two do something fun, and then go there for a quiet evening? I’ll send the servants to freshen it up so you two can have a proper date.”

Rukia’s shoulders square and her back straightens. “Really?”

Hisana nods. “You should make Renji something nice to eat. Or, you both can cook together. Or, I can send a chef to—”

Rukia shakes her head, the golden light of dusk setting her eyes aglow. “I have an idea.” 

“Good. I’ll have the steward drop off the keys with one of your handmaidens.”

Bowing her head, Rukia smiles into her lap. “Thank you, Sister.”

“No need.” Hisana is always happy to help in the name of romance.

* * *

Exhaustion rips through Renji, plundering all shreds of motivation and stealing any semblance of ambition to do, well, _anything_. Worse still, his latest impromptu assignment in the World of the Living meant he had to cancel on most of Rukia’s Big Night Out.

Rukia has never planned a Big Night Out before. Nor has he. But, boy, was he excited when she proposed it. 

This was going to be something new. Something different. Something that promised unassailable _alone time._ No drunken friends to haul back to the barracks. No nosey nobles to report back to the Kuchiki elders. No servants to overhear them, and no pesky _captains_ to barge into the room without warning. 

The Big Night Out—even if the world burned down around them—was going to be _fucking amazing_ , dammit!

Then, his damn stupid spirit phone had to have a conniption. And then . . . .

Ichigo.

_Sigh._

Captain Ukitake.

 _Sigh._

Bleary-eyed, Renji stares up at the cabin where Rukia told him to meet her. Not even the friendly red paint of the cabin’s door can lift his spirits. This assignment is just . . . _wrong._ On so many levels. Every time he thinks about confiding the particulars to Rukia, the contents of his stomach shift, and he cowards out of it. 

She wouldn’t like it. Not one bit. Truth is, neither does he, but it can’t be helped.

An order is an order is an order. He can’t unilaterally reject assignments from his captain because it makes him feel like a shithead. And, even if Renji refused to carry out the order, he doesn’t think for one damn second that the end result would be better for Ichigo and the gang of ridiculously over-powered teenagers from Karakura Town.

Ichigo might be understanding if Renji told him. Maybe he should do that, tell Ichigo what’s going on, why he’s suddenly hanging around at random times. Maybe a good confession will make these checkups more palatable, ease his conscience a little.

Renji sighs, eyes locking on the phone in his hand. Checking his phone has become an almost compulsive habit, an act of obsession. Did it vibrate? Did it blink? Chirp? Is he losing his grip on reality?

No. The thing is deathly quiet. Only the bellowing of frogs and chirping of crickets fill his ears. 

It’s fine. It won’t ring. Especially if he puts it on silent. 

It’s late. Captain Ukitake would understand. Renji needs his rest, too. He’s been working his ass off for the last few months between this assignment and training his bankai.

Flipping his phone shut, Renji knocks three times and holds his breath. Boards creaking and shuffling noises sound just beyond the door. Rukia’s voice carries low as if she’s mumbling something to herself.

She’s probably pissed that he ruined her Big Night Out plans.

He’s pissed, too, but that doesn’t stop his heart from pounding in his chest. If only it wasn’t so late and everything so closed, he would’ve grabbed some takeout to bring as penitence. But, not even their favorite ramen shop was open.

Rukia throws back the door and immediately turns into the room. No preamble. No pleasantries. Not even a greeting to spare a man.

“Nice to see you, too,” he mumbles and kicks his shoes off in the genken before entering.

“It’s cold,” she says, back to him.

“Yeah, winter is around the corner.” His gaze clasps to her.

When Rukia finally turns to acknowledge his presence, she is shaking her head. She appears lost in thought, chewing the inside of her mouth like she does when she’s nervous. Her hands wring the fall of her apron. 

Renji blinks hard. 

_An apron._

The white fabric strangles in her clenched hands. 

Is Rukia really wearing an apron? 

He takes a long sniff. Yep, there’s definitely a lingering odor of food. It smells good, so good that his stomach responds with a loud growl. 

Rukia points at his gut. “Don’t get any ideas yet. The food needs to be re-prepared.”

“You mean re-heated.”

“No, I meant re-prepared.”

“Trust me. All food can be re-heated.”

“Renji,” she says, iron in her voice, “I already tried that when I heard you clomping up to the cabin. It’s not—” She stops, lips in a twist. “It’s not good. It’s soggy. I need to redo it. Wait here.”

Rukia disappears into what he presumes is the kitchen. 

“How long is this going to take?” he calls to her over the clattering of pans and pots. 

If he’s being honest, he isn’t going to last much longer before passing out. The room is already swimming in his vision. Every muscle in his body is crying to be put to bed.

“An hour tops,” she responds.

Not a chance in hell. On that couch? The one in the middle of the floor with all the fluffy pillows that looks like it came from one of those ritzy hotels in the World of the Living? He’ll be out faster than if Kenpachi showed up and sucker-punched him in the head. 

“Can I help?” he asks, following the sounds of clanging iron and metal. 

Sticking his head through the doorway, he grins at what he finds: Rukia chopping vegetables. 

What is this life? Is he already dreaming? Did he fall asleep at the door?

“Out!” she cries, flinging the knife _at_ him. 

A shrill _whoosh_ confirms that, yes, Rukia really threw the damned knife _in_ _his direction_. Fortunately, the blade sticks in the wooden doorframe and not his _fucking face_. 

“That was excessive.”

Rukia raises her brows and narrows her eyes. “Next time, I’ll actually mean to throw the knife at you. So, out!”

“I’m glad you weren’t trying to kill me,” he teases her. “But, c’mon. Let me help. I’m okay in the kitchen.”

Cocking her head to the side, she brandishes her best _“fuck you”_ face. “I don’t believe it.”

“Yeah, practically an Iron Chef over here.”

“What’s that?” Rukia stares at him, nonplussed. “One of those mech shows that Orihime watches?”

Renji shakes his head at her, long, slow, and _disapproving_. “It’s a food competition show. Momo used to host a really busted-ass version of it at the Fifth when things were . . . .” 

_Normal_. 

He resists the urge to say the word, especially since things are slowly improving around Soul Society since Aizen’s betrayal. 

“So, you used to compete with other people to make food?” she says, voice thick with sarcasm.

“No. I was strictly there to eat the leftovers, but I did get dragged to more than one cooking class in my time.”

Whipping together a batter, Rukia arches a brow. “Who was dragging you to these classes, Renji?”

Jealousy? Is that _jealousy_ that carries in her voice? Oh, be still his sweet heart. 

“Momo, mostly. Izuru also liked the instructor of one of the classes and would drag me along as his wingman.”

She snickers as she cracks an egg into the mix. “Did it work?”

“Not even a little. Apparently, _food_ is not always the language of love. It can also be the language of a restraining order.”

Her arm stops with the mixing. “ _What_?”

“We may have accidentally burned down a portion of the kitchen.” He shrugs. “Maybe it wasn’t _technically_ a restraining order, but we were definitely banned from coming back there for a while.”

“Sure it wasn’t _shame_ that made you stay your ass at home?”

“Won’t lie, shame was also a real motivating factor not to attend one of those classes again.” He flashes her a toothy smile. “C’mon, let me help out.”

“Out!” This time she points the large wooden spoon that she’s been using to whip the batter in the direction of the living room. “I don’t need help from someone who _burned down_ a kitchen. Thank you very much.”

“We didn’t burn down the _whole kitchen._ It was our station. And maybe one or _three_ stations next to us.” 

She glares at him.

“C’mon, Rukia. I’m so beat. I swear if I don’t stay on my feet I’m going to pass out.”

“Out!” she protests. “You’re already throwing off my timing.”

“Okay, at least talk to me, though. Or I’m going to fall asleep.”

“I will punch you so hard, Renji, if you even _dare_ after I’ve made this dinner _twice_.”

“I’ll be sure to pack my bags ahead of the guilt trip, then,” he says, stepping back into the living area.

That couch looks like a dream. It’s pale blue. Cushions are plush and overstuffed, just as he likes them. And, it feels like sitting on a damn cloud. He’s doomed. 

“What is this place?” he calls to her.

“I think this is where Sister stayed during the wedding preparations when she and Brother were getting married. Apparently, there are _a lot_ of forms to complete and physical presentments. Sounded like an ordeal.”

“It’s very _un_ -Kuchiki.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Yunno,” he says, “this place is sorta _rustic_.” Raw, really. The wood is rich and dark, cut to expose the intricate designs of the grain. In lieu of a traditional sunken hearth, there is a natural stone fireplace with a fire roaring inside. The floors are thick and matte, not the glossy pines of the estate. A kotatsu with a very cozy-looking blanket sits a few feet from that glorious couch. 

“It’s a _cabin_ , Renji.”

“It’s nice is all I’m saying.”

Sinking into the cushions, Renji fights to keep his eyes open. Rukia’s sudden silence doesn’t help, either. “What are you making?” he asks, mid-yawn.

“It’s a surprise.”

Oh, so now he gets it, why he can’t help out. “Well, tell me what you had planned before I got called away.”

“You mean before you _flaked_ on me?”

“I did not flake on you.”

“Uh-hmm,” she hums, unconvinced.

“Either way, what was the game plan?”

“You’ll never know, will you? _Flaker._ ”

His eyes roll back, and he sighs. “Just tell me what we were supposed to be doing before I got called away.”

Silence falls like a warning. “C’mon, Rukia. I’m dying over here!” 

More silence.

He’s not going to last. “I’m sorry, Rukia. Will you please tell me what the agenda was?” Really, he’s desperate for her to say anything. _Something._

But, he’s lost her to her thoughts. She’s probably tackling cooking with the same sort of graveness ordinarily reserved for crossing enemy lines. None of this helps him one fucking bit, though.

Without noise to distract him, how else is he going to keep from falling asleep? Rukia’s clanging has stopped, and the cabin walls are so thick that he can’t even hear the chorus of frogs and crickets. 

He’s a goner, a thought that occurs to him just before the world melts away.

* * *

Internal timers keep Rukia’s mind occupied. So absorbed, she realizes that Renji’s voice no longer fills her ears. Indeed, he hasn’t been tugging at her attention for a while now. 

_He’s asleep_ , she realizes, feeling her pulse throb in her head. First, he flakes on her and, now, _this._

 _Jerk_.

He almost deserves this disaster of a meal, she thinks, trying her level best to claim some measure of comfort from the mess that confronts her. Comfort, however, is a fickle bitch. It abandons her just as swiftly as it came, leaving her with a deflating sense of defeat. 

Her last attempt at making this dinner had gone _so well_. This time? _Ugh_.

The noodles are less _al dente_ and more like a _mushy mess_. The boiled eggs are runny, the beef is a little overdone, and the broth tastes _thin_. 

Coming in dead-ass last, however, are the taiyaki. The crusts on the last batch had been so beautiful, even, golden, and flakey. These? Some of the crusts are breaking. The color isn’t uniform on most of them. A few are more than a little burned. 

A frown pulls at her lips. 

If she were a more sentimental woman, she’d cry. The urge occurs to her. It would serve Renji right, being startled awake by a sobbing woman. He hates to see women sobbing.

But, she’s too frustrated. With him. With herself. Mostly it’s the damned taiyaki. Stupid fucking _fish_ waffles. Why does he like them so much, anyway?

Inhaling a deep, centering breath, the emotions stop whirling, and she exhales long and slow. Nothing she can do now. She’s out of ingredients, and she’s _tired_. This will have to do. 

She must surrender at the Battle of Cabin Kitchen.

Collecting her pitiful dinner in her arms, it doesn’t take Rukia long to set the kotatsu. As she suspected, Renji lays with his gangly legs hanging off the armrest of the couch. One arm is positioned over his eyes. The other dangles off the edge of the cushion, his knuckles pressing against the floor. 

He’s also _snoring_.

Rukia wants to _pummel_ him. 

Pushing this impulse aside, she begins portioning out the udon between them, hoping that the smell of the food might wake him.

No such luck.

 _Fine_. She’ll just eat without him. He deserves cold food taken alone so that he can think about what he’s done. The dolt.

Dipping her chopsticks into the soup, Rukia frowns at the noodles before eating them. They taste okay. Not great, but she’s had worse. 

Chewing, she cuts Renji a sidelong glance. 

He doesn’t even stir when she makes a production of slurping the noodles down. Squinting at him, she feels her fingers tense around her chopsticks, hoping that the fire in her eyes might snap him into consciousness.

 _Insufferable man._

Rukia turns back to her bowl and huffs.

Food doesn’t taste as good when you make it and eat it alone. Grimly, she takes another bite and then another. Chewing while frowning takes _skill_. Something Renji would appreciate _if he were awake!_

Where did this all go so wrong? Perhaps it was stupid expectation that condemned her. Yeah, she shouldn’t have _hoped_ for romance. She and Renji aren’t the romantic types. Romance is better left to Brother and Sister and, when they were alive, Kaien and Miyako. She’s nothing like Sister or Miyako, and Renji’s no Brother or Kaien. That’s okay, right? There must be couples who are allergic to romance. 

Bad udon and burnt taiyaki are more their style. Not pretentious walks through nature or candlelit dinners. Who are these people who think that stuff is fun, anyway? _Assholes_ , that’s who. _Romantic_ assholes.

Loosening a heavy sigh, Rukia sets her chopsticks down and glances over her shoulder to discover Renji peering at her through a cracked eye, grinning.

“Looks good,” he says, stomach gurgling with approval.

She punches him hard in the shoulder. Hard enough to earn a wince. One of the good ones, where both eyes squeeze shut and he has to suck in a stream of air between his teeth.

“It was better the first time. This is . . . .” Rukia can’t find the words to describe fully her disappointment. “It’s inadeq—"

“Amazing!” he says and scoots to the edge of the couch, eyes wide enough to catch the lights. “You made me taiyaki?”

Heat stings her cheeks. “Again, the first batch was better. They weren’t all mushy looking or—”

“You made me taiyaki.” He repeats the words real slow as if simultaneously shocked and touched by the gesture. 

“Yeah, _again_ ,” Rukia says, “they were a lot better before. The crusts were golden—not burned, and the bean paste wasn’t—”

He interrupts her tale of woe with a kiss, the force of which hits her harder than any punch ever could’ve. 

Her thoughts slam to a halt, like leaves dropping when the wind goes stale. She barely even notices the way his hands work to grab her up and pull her from the floor to his lap on the couch, her body following his wordless urging unquestioningly.

Deepening the kiss, she feels liquid and molten. His reiatsu infuses her, floods through her, until a pang of desire smokes up. Startled, she draws back, unsure if the desire belongs to her or him. 

Pressed against the naked skin of his chest, her palm burns hotter than the fire that warms the room, but she resists the impulse to yank it back. 

“Everything okay?” he asks.

When his voice reaches her, self-awareness crashes into her. They’re on the couch. She’s straddling him. His fingers are tangled in her obi. Her apron has been tossed to the floor beside the kotatsu. 

“The food,” she mumbles, swallowing her panic once her sense returns, “it’s getting cold.”

“Okay,” he says, brows raised.

It takes Rukia a moment to follow the direction of his gaze. 

Oh, yeah, she’s kind of _pinning him down_. 

How _embarrassing_. 

Carefully, she peels herself off of him and slinks down to the kotatsu. 

They begin their meal in prickly silence. Or, at least, she’s feeling prickly. Renji looks to be at ease, plucking the beef from his bowl of udon.

“Where did you go?” she asks.

“Um?” His gaze fastens to her as he slurps down a few noodles.

“For your assignment. What was it about?”

He shrugs. “World of the Living stuff.”

“Anything bad?”

“No. I saw Ichigo and Sado, though.”

She nods her head, taking a bite of beef. “How are they?”

“Doing okay. They helped out with some hollow hunting, and that was it. Nothing exciting.”

“You’ve been called away to Karakura Town a lot recently.”

His eyes widen. He looks like he’s a rabbit that's triggered a snare. It’s the look Renji gets when she catches him in a half-truth. 

“Something going on with Ichigo?” she asks, preparing herself for the look he gets when he’s about to lie to her.

His brows pull together. He keeps his eyes off her, and the muscles in his jaw flicker. “Nothing bad.”

“Nothing _bad_?” What the hell does that mean?

Renji shakes his head and sets his chopsticks down. “Since the whole Aizen thing, some of the captains thought it would be a good idea to check up on the kids every so often. Yunno, to make sure they weren’t getting into trouble.”

“Getting into trouble?” She can hardly believe this. Coming from Renji, no less! “So, you’re _spying_ on Ichigo? And, after everything he’s done for us. What the fuck, Renji?” That is the height of ungratefulness. “Who put you up to this?”

“Captain Ukitake. The order is probably from the Captain-Commander. You know how he is,” he replies into his bowl, voice edging on apologetic.

“Yeah, Renji, I know _exactly_ how he is. He nearly _murdered me_ on charges for which I was given exactly zero due process. And, _then_ , he was content to execute a sentence that in no way shape or form was proportionate to or appropriate for the alleged crimes of an officer of my rank.”

Renji lowers his head, eyes fixing the udon. “I remember.”

She scoffs. “Apparently, not. You’re executing orders to spy on the kids who saved us from ourselves. Not only that, but these kids are our _friends_.”

“If I didn’t do it someone else would’ve, and I don’t think everyone is,” he stops short of saying it.

But, she knows. 

Not everyone is as forgiving of powerful mortals, especially ones like Ichigo, whose talent foments _a great deal_ of envy among some in the Gotei 13. All they’d need is for one ill-intentioned Shinigami to want to try to set the kid up—paint him in the wrong light or take advantage of him—and, then, they’re careening toward certain disaster.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” says Rukia.

Reflexively, she’s on her feet. A few paces are all it takes to cross the floor to the door. She pulls on her coat and pauses, hand wrapped around the door handle.

“You’re tired. You can stay if you want, but I’m heading home.” She manages the last part without sounding like a cold-hearted bitch, but she doesn’t turn to give him a final look when she opens the door and slips into night.

* * *

****BONUS SCENE****

* * *

**The Wedding Night**

Hisana is a _wife._ The word sits there in her brain, loaded, like an arrow in a bow, ready to shoot forward. 

Sinking into the jasmine-scented bath, she wants to pick at it. Everything in her body wants to expel the thought from her, like a poison. Her stomach clenches like a fist. Bile churns in her belly. 

Everything—every fiber, every sinew, every neuron—rails against the title, the station, the very condition of _wife_ dom. In the Flower and Willow World, wives are pitiable creatures, locked away in their mansions, loveless, and weighed down by the bonds of womanhood. 

What this bondage entailed, Hisana never quite knew.

She assumed children.

She never wanted children. She couldn’t take care of herself. Couldn’t take care of her sis—

Her brain stops. Packs away that thought and the one that comes after it until all she’s left with is the boneless sensation of her body submerged in fragrant water and the encroaching darkness.

Night falls heavy, entering from the window that looks down on the tub. A lamp burning low, almost as dim as banked embers, flickers nearby. But the light is thin, thready, and burnt. 

Staring at the door leading from the bath to the prepared wedding room, Hisana sinks farther into the bath. The waterline rises to just below her nose; the tide of her gentle breathing ripples the water. 

As fiercely as her mind rejects the notion of wifedom, her body cautions her from leaving the warmth of the bath, from crossing into the wedding room.

She’s not prepared—maybe she’ll never be prepared—to perform her first duty as a _wife_ , not a _lover._

All of it is so terribly _stupid_. 

Hisana doesn’t know why or how these sudden boundaries emerge. But emerge they do, just as wide and tall as mountains.

 _You have to do this_ , she tells herself.

Her body doesn’t obey. 

_Get up, Hisana_. 

This command spurs her hand to grip the side of the tub. Her hold is loose, and, the moment her naked arm meets the air, she shudders. Winter’s bite lingers even in spring, and it nips her.

She exhales a long breath, eyes squeezing shut. 

_Lord Bya_ — 

_No_ , she stops herself. _Her_ _husband_ is waiting for her. And, he has been so patient. Endlessly patient. About everything.

He must be wondering where his _wife_ is, why she holes herself up in the bath when she should be by his side in the marriage bed.

Panic crowds her. Her heart flutters and shifts like the beating of a moth’s wings. Fear and loathing whirl in her stomach. This isn’t how she should feel on her wedding night: exposed, naïve, scared, inexperienced, _unclean_.

It’s the last one—the feeling of being unclean—that keeps her locked in place, chewing on her lip, heart aflutter, stomach clenching.

She squeezes her eyes shut tighter.

She doesn’t deserve this. Whatever _this_ is.

Legitimacy? Respect? His love?

Her heart bucks at the one. 

Love it is. She doesn’t deserve his love, his kindness, or the trappings that come with it. Like a last name. A title. Respect.

She shouldn’t have done this, agreed to do this, led this poor man on. She knew she hadn’t the heart. This whole day has unraveled thread by painful thread, revealing a tapestry of her worst fears: She doesn’t belong, will never belong, will only be a burden to her dear husband.

All day, aunts, elders, and women of far better breeding and grace than she descended upon her like birds. They were beautiful, swathed in colorful silks and painted in the finest shades of womanhood. Their voices carried the melodic lilt of songbirds, but these ladies were no songbirds. They were birds of prey. Their words, poetic and flowery, had been filed into the sharpest weapons, and they tore into her, picking her apart until she was little more than a gnarled carcass.

Hisana wonders if she will ever find her strength in his family. Hope of belonging—hell, of even _fading_ into the background—has been shaken. She fears she will never find purchase, only quicksand, wherever she treads in House Kuchiki.

What has she done?

And, like that, a shard of ice enters her. Not even the hot bathwater can stave it back, and, with the winter chill kissing her neck and shoulders, Hisana stands. Water cascades off her like a glimmering gown of starlight, and she begins toweling herself off.

Careful to avoid her reflection in the mirror, Hisana wraps herself in a white under-robe. She must look indecent. The silk clings to her damp skin, leaving little to the imagination. 

Once at the door, she hesitates. She can do this, will do this. She just needs a moment. 

Inhaling a deep breath, she takes comfort knowing that, with the lantern light burning so low, her shadow shouldn’t be apparent through the thin rice paper. Her husband shouldn’t notice her apprehension, how she stands, fingertips lightly pressed against the cool wood of the shoji. 

_He deserves better, Hisana. You can do this for him._ The shock of this thought enervates the muscles in her hand, and she slides the door back, revealing the marriage room.

It is spacious. Beautiful, even, despite the heavy motif of cranes, pines, and peaches that spread across the fusuma. All of which are symbols of longevity and fertility. 

Lord Byakuya sits up on the futon, casting the evening paper aside. Eyes alert, cheeks flush from the heat of his own bath. But, it’s the way that he looks at her that keeps her in place, a step behind the room’s threshold. Her dear, sweet husband regards her with the reverence ordinarily reserved for gods. 

“Hisana.”

Hisana tucks her chin down, eyes rooted to the pale-yellow tatami. “Lord Byakuya,” she murmurs and drops to her knees at the edge of the futon before he can stand to greet her. 

She can feel his gaze on her. Every spot where it lands heats her skin, turns it aflame. The chill that once rattled becomes a mere memory. 

This warmth that breathes the life back into her blood, however, retreats the moment she sees the futon. 

The bone-white futon.

It’s as if she’s been struck with a great force, and she’s bleeding out.

When she looks down, there’s no blood. Only white. White. White. White.

Why did the sheets have to be white?

Her pulse hammers in her head, drowning out everything else. A memory—vivid and gory—overwhelms her like the seas pulling a dingy into a maelstrom. 

Her first time: sold, prepared, consumed. 

The sheets had been white then, too. She assumed it was by design. Done to prove the goods were genuine. 

The blood had been real, though: scarlet, thick, and hot.

Staring into the white sheets, the ones that wrinkle against the weight of her husband’s knees, red inkblots—afterimages of memory—appear and disappear with a blink. The memory playing in her head comes so clear, so vibrant, it’s hard to separate from her current state. Buoyed, it refuses to let go no matter her attempts to shove it down. 

The act had been so foreign, so clinical. 

The lights were bright. The bed was set, linens crisp, sterile. The directions given to her were precise: lay with her head on the stiff pillow; loosen her robes; keep her arms and hands at her side; and, focus on the ceiling when the pain became unbearable. 

Hisana had closed her eyes the minute she felt the man’s weight plunge into the futon. Memory has stripped the man’s features from her memory, rendering it a dark void; the fall of his breath and the pressure of his body, his movements, however, ricochet through her. Now. And forever.

His touch was featherlight but cold, triggering gooseflesh to erupt across her entire body. Scared of the unearned intimacy and the pain promised to come, Hisana braced herself, every fiber tensed and unwilling to coax loose. 

This had been a mistake.

Hisana knew it was a mistake when it happened. She had been instructed not to tense; it made everything worse. But, her body was a stubborn thing, and she was so very terrified of it, of the man, of fully submitting to a fate that she never wanted, never asked for.

The act had gone on too long. Terror does that, though. It draws out a moment, stretching it until it becomes endless, feels like infinity. 

She had clenched up, making the sex more painful than it should have been.

And, there was blood.

There had been more blood than she was prepared for. 

After the taking, she was left alone. Horror and then shock kept her company for hours. Tears came next. Quiet at first. Then, sobbing. Her intimacy plundered, and, at the conclusion, she was officially a whore. The transition into the role of courtesan hit her hard; it felt monumental, like there was no turning back; the dye had been cast. 

By the time she had pieced herself together, Hisana had mastered her sniffling, had covered up the tear tracks, and had forced on a brave face. Her acting skills had earned Mistress’s approval, but it had cost Hisana the shred of dignity that the she had so desperately kept for herself.

“Hisana.” Her husband’s voice reaches her like a life-preserver tossed into a roaring ocean. 

Gratefully, she holds onto it and lets it drag her to the surface. When the wedding room blinks back into view, she gulps down a mouthful of air. 

How long did the memory transfix her?

Long enough for Lord Byakuya to cross the futon to her. 

Wordless, he examines her. His eyes shimmer like agate, and he places a hand to her shoulder. Hisana perceives his touch on delay. Her muscle twitches, but the heat from his palm settles her.

“You’re trembling,” he observes, voice sounding equal parts confused and concerned. “Hisana, are you well?”

Embarrassment stings her cheeks. “I’m sorry, milord,” she says on a broken breath, head shaking as if she hopes to scatter his worry. 

“I just—” She grasps for the truth, but lies fill her mouth fuller and quicker than hard facts ever do. “I’ve never had a husband, and I’ve never,” her voice strangles in the silence.

“You’ve never been a wife?” he completes the thought. Light, soft and soothing, plays in his gray stare.

Feeling her color rising, Hisana hangs her head. Pride keeps her gaze rooted to the weave of the tatami. She’s never been so _precious_ over sex before. Especially with Lord Byakuya, who has always been a considerate lover.

Gently, he loops a finger under her chin and eases her face up. 

Hisana holds her breath, expecting a mocking glint to glow in his eyes. What she finds is nothing of the sort. Her husband regards her with utmost sincerity. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Cupping the side of her face in his palm, he says, “We don’t—”

Shaking her head, Hisana places her hand over his. “No.” 

Retreat will only feed this particular beast. Moreover, she does not want to look back at her wedding night with regret. This was supposed to be the moment that salvaged the wedding from the aunts and elders who offered barely-concealed contempt with greater enthusiasm than words of support for their union.

Pressing her forehead against his, Hisana stares her husband in the eye. “Go slow,” she says, “I want to remember this night.”

What she means to say—but can’t find the words to express—is that she wants her husband to make love to her for as long as it takes to burn away the memories of wounds sustained from men she never wanted. 

“As my wife wishes,” Lord Byakuya says and brings her into his arms. 

Tipping her head back with the gentlest of nudges, he kisses her. His lips are soft and chaste, and his touches barely register as he plucks at her ties and knots. 

She is safe. There is security in his arms, and his kisses are imbued with love. Her husband is a kind, gentle man who would never hurt her. And, at this thought, she melts, tense fiber by tense fiber releasing. 

Hisana deepens the kiss that her husband begins. Her heart jumps and excitement threads through her, forcing the darkness that edges her mind’s eye back. While she knows that the darkness of her past will strike again, just as unpredictable as now, she also knows that she’s stronger with her husband’s love and support.

And, for that, she is endlessly grateful.


End file.
